


Ubal -- Enough

by MaureenLycaon



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Originally Posted on Tumblr, War of the Thorns | Burning of Teldrassil, World of Warcraft: Legion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22654750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaureenLycaon/pseuds/MaureenLycaon
Summary: As the War of Thorns gets grimmer, Ubal finally reaches his limits. Grimdark, war atrocities.
Kudos: 3





	Ubal -- Enough

**Author's Note:**

> (How the War of Thorns ends for Ubal.
> 
> Copyright disclaimer: the Warcraft universe and games belong to Blizzard Entertainment. Only the interpretation and these particular words belong to me, Maureen Lycaon. No copyright challenge intended.)

The ancient pines brooded in the mist, their gray-black branches drooping. Even the grass was starved of color. Only the occasional floating wisp, a small point of wan light, broke the gloom.

Ubal let himself think of the Echo Isles, and of Feralas, and hungered for the color green.

Somewhere in those pines, the night elves were watching the camp. They'd followed the Horde all through the bitter march north, sniping and killing stragglers, then vanishing back into the forest like ghosts.

"-- set fire to the forest here. Try to do as much damage as possible," troop commander Bralash Axefury was saying. "Druids, scouts, keep watch over them. Don't let those night elf scum pick them off."

It was the same tactic they had used for three days now. First the peons would fan out and squirt the tree trunks with the flammable liquid concocted by the goblins; then, the pyromancers would set it afire. Within moments, each tree would be burning like a torch. The flames would consume it in a few minutes, but not before spreading to every other tree within a hundred paces. The wildfire would burn until it ran out of nearby trees, or until the night elves managed to put it out.

Ubal understood the strategy. Wreak as much havoc in as many places as possible, forcing the night elves to turn their energies and resources away from harassing the Horde to fighting the fires. Each fire cost them valuable cover for ambushes, and the Horde gained a little more ground.

Sometimes something had to be destroyed to gain a greater good. The Echo Island rainforests he'd once roamed had been cut down to make room for the massive Darkspear military complex. Now, if this army could drive the Alliance out of the Kalimdor mainland and occupy Teldrassil, the Horde would finally have all the timber it needed. No one would talk about chopping down the forests of Feralas any longer.

Still, he didn't have to like it.

They moved out, plunging into the gray morning fog under the trees.

Each peon had a metal tank of the fluid strapped to his back, with a leather and bronze hose and nozzle attached. They held the nozzles as they walked, muscles tensed under their ragged shirts and rudimentary armor. Their gazes darted uneasily between the treetops, the shadows, the drifting wisps. Only Bralash's authority kept them going.

Ubal didn't blame them. He'd seen what the wisps could do. Even he felt his pulse speed up. He didn't take his eyes off the trees.

The troop had three druids, counting Ubal himself, Je'kon -- another young troll -- and Kirima Rainwind, an old shuhalo. In his opinion, they needed more, but most of the Horde's druids were in Silithus now. In the center of the group walked the pyromancers -- three blood elves and a goblin.

The coolness and mist did nothing to soothe him. It felt as if the silent forest were holding its breath.

A pale wisp drifted past, but it ignored him. They were supposed to be pacified now. From this close, he could see its tiny night elven face, slack and idiot, devoid of the intelligence it would have had in life.

 _You'd think they would set them free._ In their own way, the night elves were as merciless as any orc.

"Far enough!" Bralash called. "Now, get to work!" The fog slightly muffled his voice.

An acrid chemical reek reached Ubal's nostrils as the peons began spraying. He turned and padded away into the shadows beneath the trees, using his stealth magic to fade into near-invisibility. Kirima and Je'kon, the other two druids, did likewise, spreading out and weaving into a complex pattern of movement meant to guard the firestarters as closely as possible while keeping their movements unpredictable to any watching enemies -- and, of course, avoiding the fires.

He strained his eyes and ears but could hear nothing. No stealthy rustles in the branches above, no squeak of a bow being drawn. He sniffed, but the sharp stink of pine resin clogged his nostrils.

Behind him the forest flared with light, as the mages cast their spells on the soaked tree trunks and fires blazed into life, blasting the mist away and tainting it with smoke.

The three druids had their own section of camp, their tents forming a rough triangle.

As they whiled away the off-duty hours before sleep, they talked. Ubal had learned a little about his companions. Kirima -- never a truly powerful druid -- was old and grizzled, her muzzle almost white. She limped slightly most mornings, troubled by arthritis afflicting an old battle wound in her left leg (a memento from the Outland war). Je'kon, on the other hand, was young and untested. He'd served briefly at the Mor'shan Rampart and Stonemaul Hold, but this was his first big offensive.

Perhaps it was a mercy to kill the maddened furbolg.

The creatures rushed at them wild-eyed, foam dripping from their jaws as they gnashed their yellow teeth. Their matted fur reeked. Their eyes held nothing of sanity as they charged, uncaring of their wounds, trampling the fallen corpses of their fellows. Ubal's troop lost two peons the first day when they were overwhelmed and had to retreat.

The soldiers couldn't find any cubs or old ones in Blackwood Den. Ubal tried not to think about what had happened to them. There was only rotting food and feces, as if the furbolg had lost interest even in basic cleanliness.

He brought them down with tooth and claw, killing furbolg until he was half-blind with exhaustion.

That evening, as the druids sat by the fire eating supper, Je'kon broke the silence.

"I never see anyt'ing like it. What made dem so maddened like dat?"

Kirima looked over at him with her deep brown eyes.

"Don't you know?" she asked. "We did, when we burned the trees."

The entire Horde force in Darkshore united again for the next stage of the assault -- crossing the Wildbend River. Even so, the stalemate lasted for fourteen days. The flying machines continued the battle, piloted by goblins and the more harebrained champions. They flew over enemy lines to firebomb the kaldorei, dryads and Ancients that massed on the north bank.

The Horde druids stayed in Blackwood Den with the wounded, the sick, and non-combatants. They helped to heal the casualties and guard the fringes of the camp.

Ubal was glad he didn't have to see the Ancients burn alive, even if they were enemies.

Even now, with the battlefront far beyond, the kaldorei stalked them. The night elves had an uncanny ability to slip through the slightest gaps in their patrols. Kodos spooked and bolted into the woods. Wagons and catapults went up in flames, or had wheels and axles broken. Flying machines in repair were sabotaged. Supplies turned up missing, or befouled with urine and excrement, or even poisoned. Anyone stepping out of the camp, even briefly, risked their lives. Sometimes others would find the bloodied corpse; other times, the victim simply was never seen again.

Sometimes, even druids did not return from patrol.

The great cat leaped down from the branches of the tree above him, but his own feline hearing caught the faint scratch of claws on bark above just in time. He jumped aside, letting the enemy druid _thump_ down onto the soft forest soil. The night elf's cat form was dusky purple-gray, with white-painted crescent moons on each shoulder.

She turned her glowing white eyes on him, and then they leaped at each other.

They clawed each other's faces and shoulders and snapped at each others' throats. Neither one growled or roared; the night elf no more wanted to attract extra enemies than he did.

Suddenly, inexplicably, there was a pause in the fight. Ubal's face dripped blood; his claws were sunk deeply into the other's shoulder. Her white eyes blazed with hate and loathing.

 _Defiler!_ she spat in the cat-form language. _You are no druid!_

Then they threw themselves upon each other again.

Finally, Ubal managed to tear out the other druid's throat. Even as the blood fountained from her ripped jugular vein, she clawed at his shoulders and forelegs and face until the hatred died from her eyes and she fell back, kicking in her death throes.

On the fourteenth day, the stalemate ended.

Ubal spent the night patrolling the woods just beyond the camp's western edge, looking for Sentinels or enemy druids offering the regular troops any last-ditch harassment.

At sunrise, he circled back in, and shapeshifted back as he approached the sentries. Somehow, being in troll form brought him a feeling of relief. Not much, but some. After identifying himself to them, he entered the camp.

The massive Horde camp stretched far beyond the furbolg dens. Endless tents stood in more or less orderly rows. Off-duty fighters sat together in open spots, talking, singing campaign songs together, eating. Ubal walked through them, speaking to no one except for brief greetings, until he reached the part of the camp where some of the off-duty Horde druids had gathered.

Here, no one was singing, and very few were talking. The tauren and trolls who were not sleeping or eating sat in silence, shoulders slumped, heads low.

He found Kirima and Je'kon in their assigned place.

"Didja see anyt'ing? Any elves?" Je'kon asked him.

"Nothing dis time," he answered.

Their attempt at small talk dwindled and then fell silent again as they ate their rations of stew, pork, and hardtack. Even as the sun cleared the tops of the distant trees and warmed the camp, they barely looked at each other.

Je'kon had lowered his gaze to the ground; now he sat unmoving. Ubal glanced at Kirima. Her gaze had gone distant again, unfocused.

He closed his own eyes. He could feel the land's energy beneath him, sullen and brooding.

He didn't look at them again. He wondered if they were thinking the same thing that he was.

_Maybe we won't advance any further. Maybe Sylvanas will come to her senses._

A swell of sound broke him out of his numb reverie. *What the --?* He opened his eyes and looked around.

Heads turned, ears perking, as a swell of orcish shouts and cheers rose in the northeast. Suddenly animated again, Je'kon stood up, trying to see what was going on. His eyes went wide.

An orc warrior came running through the druids' tents, shouting and jubilant.

"Saurfang! Saurfang's forces have come!"

The cheers were swelling into a loud chant, spreading through the camp.

_"Saurfang! Saurfang!"_

The push resumed -- northward, ever northward, toward Darnassus.

More and more fire. Each day, fewer and fewer trees. Sometimes they crossed ground that another troop had already burned -- the earth covered with ash and bits of charcoaled wood, the trees blackened stumps.

Smoke obscured the sky, forming dense clouds overhead. Their underbellies reflected orange and gold. At night, the glow of fire was everywhere. The army walked on ashes, camped on ashes, breathed in ashes and smoke.

Ubal sneezed and coughed. His eyes were sore and red-rimmed. His throat felt as if it had been scrubbed with a hard-bristle brush.

The forest's sullen silence had ended. Every night now, before he fell asleep, he could hear it screaming. He was too exhausted to pay it heed.

Sometimes he saw the charred corpses of animals. This one was certainly a stag -- the antlers were obvious, scorched dark. That one had been a bear, though the blackened body was twisted, exposed teeth snarling in the skeletal open jaws.

He found a corpse of what he thought was a night elf, but it was too burned to be sure.

One morning, as they marched north, they passed a humanoid corpse draped over a smaller corpse.

 _A night elf and a gnome,_ he would tell himself later. _A gnome. Not a child._

He heard someone nearby retching.

Only much later did Ubal learn that the little village was called Anu'dorini. Thirty-four night elves all told, including the children, with only two Sentinels to defend it; it made for a short, easy fight.

He shepherded a night elf woman and girl, pushing them forward. The woman, a tall, dignified civilian, scarcely honored her captor with a look, but she kept a tight grip on the child's hand. The girl looked around bewildered, not truly understanding what had happened.

They passed by the bloodied corpse of a slain Sentinel, stretched out on the floor of an open building. The night elf woman quickly moved to place herself between the body and the child she was leading.

They reached the place where the prisoners were being held, crowded into a clearing, watched over by impassive orc grunts and a Wolfrider. The night elf woman never looked at him; she still held the girl's hand as she went to sit down on the grass among the other prisoners. Ubal could hear sobs -- it sounded like two or three people, no more. The others were silent.

"What is this?" a harsh voice rasped.

Executor Raimund Hopebreaker walked over, glowering at the prisoners. The two Dark Rangers flanking him stared impassively at the scene, bows in their hands.

Osgeth Warfury, the orc commander, stepped forward, saluting. "Executor! I did not know you were coming --"

"Never mind that," Raimund snapped. "Why are these night elves here?"

"These are all the prisoners, Executor. Both Sentinels died in the fight. Do you wish to see their corpses?"

"I want to see _these_ as corpses," Raimund said. "No prisoners were to be taken. It is the Dark Lady's order."

Osgeth's back stiffened. "I received no such order, Executor."

"Then someone failed in their duty. We cannot spare time or guards for prisoners." Raimund gestured at the night elves. "Dispose of this refuse. Now."

Osgeth stared at him, eyes wide. "They're unarmed prisoners, Executor. Civilians. They are no threat."

"Do it now, Commander Osgeth, or the Dark Lady will hear of your insubordination."

"But --"

Raimund raised his voice to the group at large. "Soldiers of the Horde, kill these worms. Kiera, Clarissa -- _assist_ them."

The Dark Rangers nocked arrows and fired into the prisoners in a blur of motion. Two night elves screamed in agony, clutching at the shafts embedded in their bellies. The Rangers had not gone for the quick kill.

Cursing, Osgeth drew his axe and waded into the prisoners, chopping with quick, economical motions. The other orcs joined in. The shrieks of terror mingled with death screams.

Night elves leaped up to flee, but the Rangers turned to them and began picking them off with pinpoint accuracy. No more gutshots.

A young night elf woman streaked past Ubal, running for the trees.

His body shifted without thought, went into motion without his willing it. He bounded after her. In two leaps, he was upon her, his weight slamming her to the ground. She did not have time to scream before his jaws crushed her neck.

Backing off the corpse, he saw the black arrow in her left side, embedded all the way up to the still-quivering fletching. The arrowhead stood out on the other side, impaling her.

He looked about, his mind racing to catch up with what he had done. He saw no more escaping prisoners. He shapeshifted back, and returned.

Night elves lay strewn on the ground: old men, women, children. A man stirred, arms moving, making a feeble attempt to get up. Even as Ubal watched, a grunt stepped over, raised his axe, and brought it down on him.

Raimund's Dark Rangers were already roaming the field, retrieving their arrows from the corpses.

In a nearby cluster of Horde druids, Kirima stared at the corpses without moving. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her back on Raimund and Osgeth and began walking away.

It took Commander Osgeth several moments to notice her. He shouted: "Private Kirima! Where do you think you're going? Get back here! NOW!"

Kirima did not even flick her ears. Ignoring the commander, she kept walking toward the trees.

"Private Shaanu! Stop her! Bring her back!"

The Tauren warrior watched Kirima. He made no move to stop her; he merely watched.

A cold resolve filled Ubal's mind. _Enough._

He turned, chose a direction, and began walking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another druid get up and start walking away. Then another.

"STOP THEM!" Osgeth almost screamed, as Raimund and his Dark Rangers stared in disbelief.

Ubal felt his back prickle, expecting the hot shock of an arrow. It didn't come. The thought of lurking kaldorei passed through his mind, but it wasn't enough to make him stop.

Reaching the trees, he shifted into cat form. He kept walking away until the forest swallowed him from sight.


End file.
